


Maus

by Polomonkey



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Christmas Truce of 1914, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Romance, Tenderness, World War I
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-17
Updated: 2015-12-17
Packaged: 2018-05-07 04:52:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5443985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polomonkey/pseuds/Polomonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas in the trenches, and two enemy soldiers meet in No Man's Land.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maus

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to the mods for organising this fest and to Aggy for helping with the (Bayrisch) German!
> 
> This fic was inspired by a prompt by rotrude, and also fills my 'combat' square on H/C bingo.

The official word from the Generals was that fraternisation was forbidden. But the official word from the Generals had also been that the war would be over in three months, so Arthur didn’t set much store by their word anymore. There was a time when he’d have followed any order given to him but a year of trench warfare had taken its toll. Half the regiment he’d trained with were dead. His best friend had been sent home last month with both his legs blown off. Since October they’d been knee deep in freezing mud and those that hadn’t succumbed to foot rot had been bitten to the bone by fleas. Arthur was tired and he was cold and to be perfectly frank the whims of the Generals, warm and dry in a base camp miles away, didn’t particularly matter to him. 

So when Private Mordred nervously translated the shouted transmissions from the German trench – “They want a truce for Christmas Day. They want to meet us in No Man’s Land.” – Captain Arthur Pendragon disobeyed a direct order for the first time in his life.

“Tell them yes,” he said.

Mordred shouted their reply through the frigid air and they waited, watching through the periscopes. For a minute there was nothing to see but the fall of snow and the lines of barbed wire stretched out against the dim sky.

Then slowly, falteringly they began to emerge; these foreign soldiers. Tentatively at first, heads barely peeking above the parapet, as if in fear of a trap. Then bolder, crawling up into the weak winter sunlight; striding out across the forbidden space, the long contested ground between them. 

Arthur led his men out to meet them in the middle and they stood, uneasy. There had been widespread truces last year but the war had only been on a few months, and the feeling then was that they’d all be back home in the new year. They knew better now.

Still they shook hands, formally, as though this was a place where the civilities of society had any purpose.

“Merry Christmas,” one of the Germans said.

“Frohe Weihnachten,” Mordred said in response.

There was an awkward silence.

Then a slim young man stepped forward.

“We play?” he asked, holding up a well-worn leather football.

Arthur’s men turned towards him, seeking approval.

“Yes,” Arthur said. “Ja. Danke.”

Suddenly it was like any residual tension had vanished. Two Germans immediately fell back to form a makeshift goal not far off; Percival and Mordred followed suit in the opposite direction. Everyone else quickly dispersed themselves until Arthur was left facing the slim man with the ball.

He cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Ah. Well. Good luck.”

The slim man cocked his head and Arthur wondered if he hadn’t understood. But then a mischievous grin crossed the man’s face.

“We won’t need luck,” he said and tipped Arthur a wink. Then without warning he dropped the ball and nimbly spirited it away.

“You cheeky little-”

The man laughed as Arthur gave chase, and surrendered the ball to a fair tackle. Arthur found himself staying close to the man for much of the ensuing game; there was something infectious in the way he smiled and flitted about, something that Arthur wanted to be near.

The men played until they broke for lunch. Some went back to their respective trenches and brought gifts to trade with the other side – buttons and tobacco and squares of chocolate. Rations of rum were shared around, each man raising a tin cup to the other. Arthur accepted a cup of his own, fully resigned to flouting his orders now, and stood a little apart, watching as the soldiers mingled. 

It was a German who first started singing, and though the words were unfamiliar, Arthur recognised the tune of Silent Night. The English joined in, and the two versions intermingled in the air, forming their own fragile harmony. 

Arthur listened, chest tight, and turned to see the slim man at his side.

“I like this,” he said haltingly.

“Yes, I also like this song,” Arthur said, trying to speak slowly. He wished he had more German at his disposal but Mordred was the fluent one in the troop – Arthur had only studied it for a year at school.

Still, there was at least something he knew how to say.

“Ich heiße Arthur.”

The man took his proffered hand.

“I am called Merlin.”

“Merlin,” Arthur said, testing it out on his tongue. Neither of them had included their rank. That didn’t seem to matter now. “That’s a good name.”

When Merlin smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled up. Arthur felt a familiar swooping sensation in his stomach and he glanced away, taking a nervous gulp of rum to calm himself. He offered the tin cup to Merlin and watched the white of his neck as he tipped his head back to drink.

He looked young up close, even younger than Mordred, and Arthur wondered if he was very new to the Front.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Nine,” Merlin said without hesitation and Arthur laughed.

“Nineteen?”

“Ah! Yes. Nineteen.”

Merlin didn’t seem embarrassed by his mistake; on the contrary, he seemed tickled. Just like when he played football – making up in enthusiasm for what he lacked in skill. It was an admirable quality, Arthur thought.

“And you?” Merlin said. “You are nine also?”

Arthur grinned.

“Twenty two.”

“Very old,” Merlin said, raising his eyebrows comically.

“Yes, I feel it,” Arthur said, and somehow that wasn’t quite a joke. But Merlin gave no indication that he caught Arthur’s deeper meaning.

They were silent after that, listening to the singing, passing the cup back and forth. It was companionable, until Merlin’s hand brushed a little too long against Arthur’s, and something thickened in the air between them.

Arthur could feel Merlin looking at him, but found he could not meet his eyes

“Come to trench,” Merlin said quietly. “I will make you see something.”

Arthur did look up at that, blushing, and Merlin’s eyes widened, shaking his head.

“Keine nicht…”

He flailed around for the words and then gave up.

“Come. Please.” 

It was a step too far and Arthur knew it. They were on neutral ground here, in No Man’s Land, but to go to Merlin’s trench would be something else entirely. A boundary being crossed. Arthur was frozen in indecision, caught between fear and longing.

Then he felt a very gentle touch on his hand. He turned to see Merlin gazing at him; a little anxious, a little hopeful. 

Arthur nodded.

They slipped away during a particular rowdy song. Arthur didn’t dare look back, just followed Merlin down; not bothering to take note of the fortifications around him or to glean any information for the Generals’ manoeuvres. He watched Merlin instead; the way his hair curled up at the back of his neck, the slow lope of his gait – slightly unsteady, as though he’d gone through a recent and rapid growth spurt.

 _Nineteen._ He was very young. The knowledge tugged at Arthur’s heart. Last year Merlin had probably been climbing trees and jumping in rivers, ripping his trousers at the knee, playing hide and seek with his friends.

And now he was here. It almost didn’t seem possible.

Merlin led Arthur all the way into a shelter within a dugout, with a few small camp beds cramped together in a row. To Arthur’s surprise Merlin immediately dropped to his knees and began foraging under one of them.

Then he made a noise of triumph and stood again, his hands clasped together.

“Come,” he said and Arthur took a wary step closer.

Merlin opened his hands.

Nestled inside was a tiny brown mouse, barely bigger than Merlin’s palm.

“A mouse,” Arthur said, foolish in his surprise.

“Eine Maus,” Merlin echoed.

Arthur smiled.

“Mouse,” he enunciated clearly.

“Maus,” Merlin said back, mischief dancing in his eyes.

“Alright, have it your way,” Arthur said fondly. “Eine Maus. Why on earth do you have it?”

Merlin looked puzzled. Arthur gestured to the tiny creature.

“Warum?” he said, hoping that was right. Merlin’s face cleared.

“I feed. Little meat and bread.”

He mimed feeding scraps to the mouse.

“Warum?” Arthur asked again, slightly incredulous. Food was scarce enough in the trenches without taking on an unnecessary pet.

“Es gibt mir hoffnung.”

 _It gives me_ … Arthur didn’t know what the last word meant.

“Hoffnung?” 

“Heart. Nein, es ist…”

Merlin shook his head, frustrated.

“It’s alright,” Arthur said gently, but Merlin looked sad now.

“Ich möchte erklären, aber ich kann nicht,” he said rapidly. “Die Maus... Ich möchte mich um die Maus kümmern. Ich möchte auf sie aufpassen. Ich fürchte, ich werde vergessen, wie man für Dinge hier kümmern.”

Arthur couldn’t follow. He shook his head and Merlin looked even sadder. There was nothing Arthur could say so he reached out his hand instead, stroked the mouse with the tip of his finger.

It was so small; dirty looking but soft to the touch. It quivered slightly under his finger, and Arthur knew that if he held it, he’d feel the frantic beat of its heart.

He could cry for this, if he was the crying sort. For this tiny creature in the hands of this painfully gentle young man; a man who should be far away from here, a man who was never made to live among violence and horror and death.

“Ich verstehe,” Arthur whispered. “I understand.”

Merlin nodded, solemn. He gave the mouse one last stroke and then crouched down to return it to the floor. Then he straightened, facing Arthur again.

The silence that fell between them was sharp with anticipation and Arthur’s heart began to judder in his chest. It would be best if he left now, he hadn’t done anything so wrong yet, no-one could say he had…

Merlin took a step closer to him. It was a confident movement but Arthur could see his hands were shaking.

He had more to lose than Arthur, most likely. If they were discovered then Arthur’s rank and his father’s wealth might save him from being court martialled and shot, or hung in England. But Merlin wasn’t an officer, he had no such protection. Arthur should leave now, save them both from themselves.

“Arthur,” Merlin said, and Arthur shook his head. Merlin smiled then, sweet and tired.

“Liebling,” he said and Arthur didn’t know the meaning but he heard the affection behind it, the tenderness.

He shook his head again but he didn’t move away. Merlin extended one hand slowly, traced a soft line down Arthur’s cheek.

They could be killed for this.

But they could be killed at any time, out here.

And Arthur was so lonely.

He let Merlin draw him forwards, let him cup his chin and bring Arthur’s lips to his own. Arthur couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. To be touched like this, after all this time… it was almost too much to bear.

“Küss mich,” Merlin murmured and as if in a trance Arthur did.

It broke the spell. Suddenly Arthur was wrapping his arms around Merlin, pulling him in closer, tugging at his clothes. It was foolish to undress, they had no time, but he stripped Merlin of his tunic and service shirt anyway; rubbing Merlin’s arms when he shivered in the cold air.

Merlin looked thin in his vest. His shoulders were narrow, and his hips too; Arthur was once again reminded of how young he was. Rather than weep he drew Merlin to him and sucked hot kisses onto his pronounced collarbones, his long white throat. Merlin made little breathy gasping noises the whole time, one hand coming up to fist through Arthur’s hair.

Arthur was gripped by the urge to feel Merlin’s weight in his arms; he picked him up and Merlin’s legs came to wrap around his waist, clinging on tight. Arthur held him against the wall and buried his face in Merlin’s neck; kissed his cheeks, his shoulders, his eyelids.

“Berühre mich,” Merlin panted out and Arthur didn’t need to know what that meant, he was already setting Merlin down on his feet again and tugging at his trousers. Haste made him clumsy and Merlin tried to help, shimmying his hips until Arthur could slip his hand inside his undergarment. He had never done this before, he could only replicate what he did to himself, but Merlin seemed to like it. He had let his head fall back against the wall and was moaning quietly, his breath hitching every so often. There was a flush on his pale cheeks and Arthur drank it in, wanting to remember everything he could about this moment, knowing that it had to last him a lifetime.

Merlin came with a soft cry and Arthur kissed him through it, stroked his hair and called him _sweetheart_ and _darling_ and other sentimental words he’d never thought he’d have cause to use.

They held each other for a long time afterwards. Standing upright, not daring to sit or lie down for fear they’d have to spring apart quickly. But no-one came.

And then it was time to go and Arthur wasn’t ready. But dusk had fallen outside, Christmas Day was nearly over and tomorrow… tomorrow they would be enemies again. 

“I must leave,” he mumbled into Merlin’s neck. 

“Nein,” Merlin said, holding on. “More minutes, please.”

“I can’t,” he whispered and Merlin held him tighter for a few short seconds, then let him go.

“Arthur,” he said, and his eyes were bright with tears. “Liebling…”

Arthur shushed him, caressed his cheek and smoothed down his ruffled hair.

“Good luck,” he said quietly, and what he meant was _don’t die_. 

Merlin squeezed Arthur’s hand.

“I won’t need luck,” he said and grinned, even as a tear slid down his cheek.

Arthur hoped with every breath in his body that Merlin was right. But certain things could not be spoken so instead he said:

“Happy Christmas. Till next we meet.”

“Till next we meet,” Merlin echoed and Arthur kissed him one last time, then left the dugout without looking back.

None of his men asked where he’d been when he returned and Arthur was grateful. He retired to his bunk and when he finally drifted off to sleep, he dreamed not of Merlin but of the mouse; of holding it against his chest and feeling its heart beat in time with his.

 

It was the mouse Arthur thought of two weeks later when he went out to recover their wounded and found Merlin lying stiff and cold in the half-melted snow. 

It wasn’t the shells or the grenades; his body was unscathed save for the hole in his forehead. It must have been sniper fire, when Merlin came out to mend the barbed wire at night. Perhaps Mordred took the shot. Perhaps Percival. Perhaps Arthur was the one who gave the command.

It didn’t matter now. Arthur thought about the mouse. Would it miss Merlin? Would it wonder where he had gone?

Where had Merlin gone? Where had they all gone, these young men?

Arthur didn’t cry. He allowed himself to close Merlin’s eyes, allowed his hands to linger briefly on the eyelids that he’d kissed. Then he clicked his heels, saluted the body, and turned away. 

It was early in the morning and the sun had only just risen. The landscape was grey as far as the eye could see, razed ground and barbed wire stretching to the horizon; and in the distance Arthur could hear the hum of war planes, getting closer and closer.

**Author's Note:**

> Merlin's little speech roughly translates to: 'I want to explain but I can't. The mouse... I want to take care of it. I'm afraid I'll forget how to take care of things, out here'

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [ART: Hope](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5723734) by [LFB72](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFB72/pseuds/LFB72)




End file.
